


A Familiar Song

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-28
Updated: 2002-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosie and Frodo talk, interact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Familiar Song

**Author's Note:**

> inspired to write this after posting a discussion in [rosiecotton](http://groups.yahoo.com/group/rosiecotton).

Bag End seemed too large sometimes, too large and empty. Rosie drew in a world of her own at these times, constructing warm barriers swirling around herself, weaving them softly, carefully with song like the small, purposely-placed stitches she threads with her hands. Baby clothes slowly emerging in her lap, she could rest the tiny garments on her belly and watch the limbs form, and think about the ones growing inside her. She sings softly, words whose meaning she's forgotten from endless repetition, flowing out of her without conscious thought, as much a part of her as the baby inside. A warm, dense cocoon around her until she thinks she can almost see it, swirling maroons and ochre as she looks up and blinks to adjust her eyes from the intense focus of the tiny stitches in candlelight. It's cold out.

There's a crash, echoing up from the hall, and she realised just _how_ cold it is outside as a gust of air sweeps into the room. She frowned, setting aside the small garment she's working on, and sucked on her finger, pricked by the needle as she started at the sound.

"Sam?" she called, the name reassuring her for all the shaken uncertainty it's spoken with. She pushed herself up from the rocking chair and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. She padded softly towards the doorway, then down the hall. No lanterns were lit - she must have lost track of time as she was working, sinking into that soft, cushioning world. It's quite dark. "Sam?" It's silly of her, really . . . she knows Sam is staying in Bywater tonight, probably with her own family - she shook her head a little impatiently - her _old_ family, her _other_ family - while he's planting in that area. But she needs to, needs to call out again, if only to fill the regained silence - "Sam?"

A quiet cough, muffled as if the owner's face is thrust deep into a sleeve.

"No, Rose, it's only me." Her eyes adjusted a little, Frodo becoming visible through his white shirt sleeves as he slowly removed his coat, and his hand is shaking as he hung it carefully on the rack by the door. "Sorry to startle you. I didn't realise it was so late until I went to turn for home and found the sun was gone."

Rosie sighed in relief, though a new tension seeped up from within it. Frodo's voice was cracked, weary.

"Would you like some tea? I haven't cooked up anything proper, I'm afraid, but there's some bread and cheese left from --"

"No thankyou, Rose, I think . . . I think I'll just . . . Retire for the evening. I'm quite done in."

_More than done in,_ she thought wryly as she watched him make his way slowly up the hall, one hand trailing along the wall as if in absent playfulness - but his slumped posture betrayed him. He kept his head turned away from her, bowed.

"Mr Frodo, I think--"

"No thankyou, Rose," he said, his voice blank and empty, and the click of the latch as he pushed the door closed was loud in the cool silence. Rosie stood for a moment, frowning, then dropped her hands from her hips with a sigh and turned back to the kitchen.

"I didn't think I'd be taking care of children _this_ soon after marriage," she muttered wryly to herself, grunting a little as she leant down to thrust a long, tapered candle in the cheerfully crackling fire. She straightened, cupping her hand around the newly lighted wick for a moment before padding softly to the nearest brass-stemmed lantern.

"There now," she sighed happily when the kitchen was a blaze of light. Humming softly to fill the silence, she filled the black kettle with water from the pitcher and set it on the hook, sinking down into the stool by the stove as she waited for it to boil.

 

It's awkward to knock on the door with the heavy-laden tray in her hands, so she called out.

"Mr Frodo?"

No answer, and she frowned slightly. "Sir I have some tea here for you, and a bite of sup..."

Carefully, she pushed the door open with her foot, peering around it as it creaked open slowly, frowning anew as she saw Frodo.

"Now this won't do!" she said aloud, concern for Frodo overlaying her unsureness at intruding on his privacy. "What would Sam say if he came home to find I'd let his Mr Frodo fall ill!"

Her voice was gently scolding as she padded purposely toward the large bed, setting the tray carefully on the night stand before leaning over Frodo, shivering slightly where he lay on his side on top of the neatly-made covers - neat except for the fresh muddy smears at the foot; he'd obviously fallen straight onto it as soon as he could.

"And here you've gone and messed my clean sheets," she said softly, clucking her tongue as she felt his forehead for fever. He seemed more _cold_ than anything else . . .

"I'm sorry, Rose," he said, barely seeming to be able to raise his voice above a whisper as he stirred weakly.

"Now, now," she said firmly, pushing him back with frightning ease. He was slender, yes, far to slight for a hobbit to be healthy, but from what Sam had told her he wasn't _weak_. . . "You just rest here and i'll get something to clean you up."

He tried to rise again. "No, Rose, you don't have to . . ."

"None of that," she said brusquely, taking an (thankfully unspoiled) blanket from the foot of the bed and tucking it over his upper body. "You're in my household now, Master Baggins, and I'll do with you as I see best." Risky, perhaps, to speak like that to the Master - but if he was going to insist on brooding away in his study all day while she cooked his meals and washed his clothes . . . not to _mention_ fall ill while Sam was away . . . Well, he'd better get some things straight. If only to ensure his well-being.

The fire in Frodo's room was still alive, embers black and red-veined, and she used them to re-light the candle on the mantel, then lit the lamps on either side until the room was glowing softly.

 

The water left in the kettle was still hot enough, and she poured the rest of it into a basin and topped it up with cool water from the pitcher, testing it with her elbow to make sure it was neither too hot nor too cold. She re-filled the kettle and set it back on the hook - you never knew when hot water would be needed - then made her way back to the master bedroom. Setting the basin carefully on an empty shelf for a moment, she gathered a couple of towels from the linen closet on the way.

 

"Here, then," she murmured, lowering herself carefully to the bed by Frodo's feet.

"Rose, you don't have to--"

"Hush."

She lay one towel on the bed below his feet and dipped the corner of the other in the water, wrung it out, then carefully began to wipe the mud from his feet.

"You should know better than to go out in weather like this, especially when it's been raining." His toes were freezing.

"It had stopped raining when I left."

"Yes, but no rain don't mean no _mud_." She glanced up at his face. He looked wretched, and quite as if he'd rather be anywhere else than on the receiving end of her careful ministrations. She folded her hand over his icy toes and squeezed reassuringly. "You're mighty cold, Mr Frodo, if you don't mind me saying so." Wiping away the last of the mud, she dropped the soiled towel in the basin and wrapped the other one around his feet, rubbing brusquely. "There now. Let's get you tucked in, shall we?"

He opened his mouth to protest again, but closed it again just as rapidly at a glance from Rosie that brooked no arguments.

He _was_ mighty cold, she discovered, having to help his shaking limbs out of the sleeves of his jacket; and his hands were clammy like melting ice. She grunted softly as she straightened again from helping him unclip his suspenders, and Frodo spoke again as she stood for a moment, rubbing her lower back. "Really Rose, I'll be alright - you shouldn't be bothering after an old hobbit like me, especially in your condition--"

"Nonsense," she smiled, leaning over once more to untuck the blankets and pull them back over him. "I ought to get some practise in before the time comes, oughtn't I? And besides, you're in a bit of a condition yourself, it seems. Now, you just rest easy here and I'll be right back."

He didn't even protest this time, something she wasn't sure she was grateful of or not - she knew of his stubbornness and so his silence concerned her more - and hummed quiet snatches of tunes to fill the silence of the hallway as she walked through to empty and refil the basin with warm water.

Shifting the tray carefully with her elbow, she rested the basin by it on the nightstand and pulled - not without some effort - the richly upholstered armchair from by the window towards the bed. Settling down at last with a sigh, she reached for one of Frodo's hands - resting limply on his chest - and began to bathe it gently with a fresh cloth, damp with the warm water. He turned his head, slowly, as if it took some great effort, and focused dull eyes on her.

"Rose . . ." he breathed, and she smiled, trying to appear more reassuring than she felt. His hands seemed even colder than before, if that was possible, though he seemed to be sweating now, perspiration beginning to shine on his forehead. She dunked the cloth again, wrung it out, then pressed it to his brow, trying to blot the dampness there before returning her ministrations to his other hand.

"There's some bread and cheese here for you, and some hot tea - if it's still hot after all this time. A bit of warmth in your belly ought to do you good."

"No, I . . ." He seemed to be struggling to get the words out, as if he hadn't enough breath in his body to speak them, eyes closed and brow furrowed. "I don't think I'll . . . Eat anything ever . . . again."

"Now that seems a bit extreme, if you don't mind me saying!" she exclaimed. "Never eat again!"

He gasped shortly; whether it was laughter or a sound of pain she couldn't tell. His eyes opened again, lids heavy, and he seemed to have sensed the undercurrent of fear in her voice because he squeezed her hand weakly and whispered, "Never fear, Rose . . . It's always worse at this time of night."

His eyes slid closed again, but not before a sheen of dullness, of _darkness_ \- and ridiculous as that sounded, it was the only way she could describe it - seemed to cloud them; and Frodo sank back into the pillows, not relaxed in sleep but still tense and shivering. And there was nothing Rosie could do but squeeze his hand back, squeeze _both_ of his hands, and continue to try and warm their impossible iciness, mopping the sweat from his trembling face and throat until the water went cool and, not daring to leave the bedside again, she warmed the air with her song.

 

She'd forgotten how long ago it was that her voice had gone hoarse, but it wasn't an unpleasant sound, in her opinion - it brought back memories of her mother, throat rough from decades of working over a smoking cooking fire, singing these same songs in her kitchen, to her children. To Rosie-lass, playing with her ragdoll before the warmth of the stove or stirring the porridge while mama turned the bacon. She was too young, really, for that hoarseness, but didn't begrudge it - by the time Sam got back from Bywater, her voice would be as sweet as spring water again, no doubt. And besides, filling this eerily quite room with words and notes and rhythms familiar through the cold darkness was worth a little roughness.

"Where did you learn that?"

She started, the weak voice from the bed surprising her where only her own sound had been for so long. Frodo was pale, lips as white as the skin of his face, and his eyes were sunken and weary, but clear again. The pale light of pre-dawn lit his skin even lighter than the orange glow of the still-burning lanterns. She still held his hands between hers.

"My mother taught me," she smiled, lilting rhythm creeping even into her spoken words.

"Did she teach you many things?"

"Only the most important. How to cook. How to run a household. How to take care of a husband and family."

"And what songs to sing them." He smiled weakly - or at least she _thought_ he tried to smile - a slight twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Well of course, that's all part of it." She began to hum softly again.

"And soon you'll have a babe of your own to sing them to."

She smiled again, and shifted a hand to rub on her belly lovingly. "Aye, but you don't always need another to sing to - you can sing your own song too."

"I suppose. My mother never taught me any songs, though Bilbo was always digging up old tales to put into verse. I learnt to dread the times when I heard his voice . . . 'Frodo my lad, where are you? Have a listen to this little refrain will you?'"

Rosie chuckled. "Yes, I do recall Master Bilbo being fond of his tunes - We all looked forward to them, though, when he came out into the garden and all us lads and lasses gathered round for tales of dragons and jools and what not."

"So did I, before I became his practice audience," Frodo said, traces of wry humour in his voice. Rosie laughed again.

"Did you ever write songs of your own, then?"

"No," Frodo murmured, somewhat thoughtfully. "I tried, though, but they never seemed to come out the way I had them written in my mind."

"You thought about them too much, perhaps," Rosie mused. "Sometimes you just have to let your mouth and do the singing for you, leave the words up to it."

"Maybe," Frodo said softly, unconvinced. "I don't like leaving things up to my mouth . . . Or to my other body parts for that matter. I find I prefer to know what I'm doing before I do it."

"Not like my Sam, then," Rosie said. "He lets his 'other body parts' make his important decisions." She laughed at the blush rising in Frodo's pale cheeks. "His _heart_, namely."

"Yes," Frodo said softly, eyes shifting to stare up at the ceiling, unfoccussed. "I suppose he does."

"There ain't no 'supposing' about it, as far as I can see," Rose said stoutly, not without a hint of pride. "Not to say that he's some mooncalf, with his head in the clouds and not knowing what's _real_." She pondered for a moment. "In fact, I'd say he know more of what's real than the most of us."

He gazed at her silently for a moment, then spoke again softly. "Yes, you do have a point there. . . If it weren't for Sam, I doubt i would have survived the last couple of years. He's kept me anchored to what _is_ real."

Now Rosie knew where her Sam and Mr Frodo had gone off to for so long, and she knew what they'd done - as much as Sam had insisted on telling her, but that was enough for her. It was enough, she thought, to see the fine lines of care mapped into the skin around Sam's brown eyes; enough to see the way Frodo seemed to sink into himself at times, lost somewhere where she couldn't follow, even if she were so inclined - which she most definitely wasn't.

"Yes," she smiled again. "Sam was always one for telling tales; just as I was for song. And he could fair sing when he told me about all things growing in his garden - in _your_ garden, beg your pardon - and what his Gaffer was up to and what not - goings on around the Shire. Grounded me right down to the earth, he did, and still does. Makes me fair feel like i'm flying up around the flowers with the butterflies, but at the same time as if my toes are buried deep in the soil."

Frodo gave a queer smile. "Yes, he is like that, isn't he? Though it wasn't as much his tales that kept me _grounded_ \- as you put it - more just Sam himself. By the end I couldn't even remember his tales, couldn't even remember the smell of his roses or the colour of Bag End's garden at sunset . . . But wherever we were, his roots were still here in the Shire, buried deeper than anyone or anything could reach." There was something strange in his voice, strange but familiar, and his hands were warm in hers. "That was all I needed in the end, to keep going, and he knew it, somehow. He knew what I needed."

They both fell silent for a long while. "Were you lovers?" she asked, the words coming out like a song before she'd even thought of them. Frodo went very still, fingers still laced with hers, and his eyes shone deep as he studied her closely, his face expressionless.

"Would it matter to you if we were?" he replied softly, answering question with a question, and that was something she hadn't thought about either, so she did now.

"I feel it ought to," she said after a long moment. "But I'd be lying if I said I married Samwise without an idea of how much he loved you." Frodo blinked, but didn't break eye contact. "And I'd be lying if i said that concerned me, same as I'd be lying if I said his love for the earth concerned me." She stroked the back of his hand absently. "And as you said, his roots are buried deep in the earth. To deep to tear up, even." She laughed suddenly. "And trying would no doubt make him dig them deeper."

He smiled, a weak smile but brilliant nonetheless. He gripped her hand, surprisingly strong. "Can you forgive me Rose?" he said softly. "For taking him away with me? For burying him even deeper?"

"There's nothing to forgive, as far as I can see," she answered, voice equally as soft, but firm with love. "You brought him back whole." She smoothed a thumb over the gap where in his right hand. "Which he wouldn't have been had he come back alone. And besides, as deep as he is, he grew right up from a seedling here in the Shire, and whatever foreign fertilising he might have got, it's only done more to make him grow and dig his roots deeper."

Frodo laughed quietly. "But don't you feel any regret that . . . He's ploughed other fields?"

She raised an eyebrow at that, and he blushed quite spectacularly and laughed again.

"I've got quite enough fertilising the time being," she said, patting her swollen belly affectionately. "And we both know he's spreading his seeds and planting all over the Shire as we speak."

They both laughed at that. "Truly, though," Rosie said at length, "it makes me glad, in a way." Frodo was silent, gazing up at her, and she continued slowly. "His heart's too big, and branches spread too wide, for me to have all the shade to myself." She grinned wickedly. "Nor all the fruit to myself. It's a part of him, I think . . . To share himself. To give more to others. Makes him grow stronger, like a tree soaking up sunlight and giving shade.

"Ooh!" she suddenly exclaimed, drawing Frodo's hands over to press her belly. "She's kicking! Can you feel it?"

"Yes," Frodo said, his voice thick with something that fluttered up inside her like the joy of her baby's kick. Frodo looked up again. "She?"

Rosie chuckled quietly. "Sam's got his heart set on a boy - Frodo-lad, I'll have you know - but I know any son of his'll have his fingers and toes buried in the soil like his dad. This lass loves my songs."

Frodo smiled, seeming to grow stronger by the second, his hands still pressed flat and spread over her belly below hers. "Sing for me, Rose," he said. "For us."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/272.html


End file.
